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Spontaneous unfinished Fantasy thing Feeling the need for other eyes on this: Frank Thatcher stood before the forge. He was only an apprentice at the smith shop but he was a hard worker and quick learner. Old Burke-the master who ran the Gilded Bird- saw in him these traits the moment he walked into the smithy groveling for a job. A far more important attribute that became apparent was the pride young Thatcher took in his craftsmanship. Every time he stoked the furnace fire he would simultaneously stoke his ambition with fantasies of mastership and fame. It was exactly this dual process that Frank was currently engaged in. He gave the forge a few precise puffs from his bellows. The crimson flames roared in response, ravenously devouring the offered fuel. A combustive cheer thundered in adulation, filling the air with cackling and spitting, further filling Frank's grand dreams. How much longer could Burke head the smithy? His protrudent figure and heavy-set breaths assured Frank not for long. Ten years maybe? Frank's brow sprayed sweat, not from anticipation but from the climbing heat. He would let nothing interfere with his art, not even his daydreams. A few more puffs should do it. The age of the bellows was showing in this effort, small cracks emerged at the apex of the decompression chamber. The exceptionally hot forge fire was taking its toll. While pondering this, he glanced to his arms, scanning his wrist to his elbow, weaving through the cracks and scales of near-scorched flesh. Yes, this heat was taking its toll. Frank focused his eyes on the bellows once more. He should inform Burke immediately, if the bellows snapped during one of the more important client's commissions Burke, in his avarice, might attempt to forge shoddy substitutes to meet the demand. The Gilded Bird's renown rested on its quality. Burke, in his old age had forgotten or refused to care about that fact. It was up to Frank to keep up appearances. After all, what was mastery without renown? Frank was satisfied that the forge was in order. He turned his attention to the center in the smithy's room were the main attraction of the Gilded Bird, a giant metallic raven shaped anvil, rested snugly. It was formidable in size and girth, taking up most of the room, it was enough surface area to easily support three or even four smithy's work simultaneously. It was not made of gold, however, an observation that so many foreign patrons found to be amusing. The relic was a glossy jet black, though it was perhaps thousands of years old it retained a strange sharpness of color, as if it had been freshly forged that day. It is a stark contrast to the rest of the building. The roof wrought with mold, the doors and walls riddled with unsettling creaks and snaps -they stood as testaments to the ravage of time. Not the anvil, though, it was as lustrous as the day it was made, defiant of inevitability. Frank was not allowed to work on the anvil. Too young and feeble, Burke would tell him. Only a master's hand could handle such an enigma. An enigma it was, Frank remembered, the metal itself was of an unknown origin. The royal academy had sent a metallurgist a few years back. The scholar was unable to determine what material the anvil originated from and suggested that dark magic may have been used in his creation. Burke scoffed at that saying 'pigheaded rabble rouser and occultist chagrin.' Frank didn't know what that meant, still doesn't. Dark magic. It made a sick sort of sense to Frank, as beautiful was the anvil was to gaze upon, it still had some intangible off-putting quality. Whenever he starred too long at it, he could swear he felt some sort of presence, and it was starring back into him. A quick glance around the shop told Frank that Burke wasn't around. He decided to approach the anvil, unable to bridle his curiosity. The academy should have sent some mages frank thought, skimming the surface of the anvil with his finger tips. "NO. THEY SHOULD HAVE SENT A PRIEST." A voice with a metallic tinge pervaded Frank's head. His entire body quaked with reverberations of each word. Frank reeled backwards, tripping over a soap bucket and falling clumsily with the full force of his weight into the tannery shelf. The shelf then reacted how most inanimate objects react to being impacted upon by large objects imbued with the force of momentum: it fell. Rawhide and leather scraps tumbled over poor Frank, bruising his scalp as they buried him. "What in the Three Moons was that?" the husk-raspy voice of Burke emitted. The forge master emerged from the cellar. "Great merciful Bathu! Boy what have you done now?" Burke surveyed the destruction in disbelief. Frank stood himself up and started unearthing the leather hide he had been previously interred into. "I thought I.." Frank stammered, starring at the raven anvil, ran his hand over his eyelids and massaged them while replaying the event in his head. That could not have happened. "Well what?" "I just..I.." Frank paused for a moment before continuing "I think I'm exhausted. Filling in Mr. Dothur's order must be getting to me. I might be succumbing to fatigue." "Oh sure, next you'll have a hacking fit and say you have the black lung as well." Burke let out a hearty chortle. "Aye lad, take the rest of the day off, not that I believe you, I just don't want to see more of my shop destroyed by yer idle fancies." Tonsured fucked around with this message at 02:41 on Mar 21, 2013 |
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Mar 21, 2013 00:35
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Sorry have a compulsive need to share this Edit: Dead DougWord Count: 850, corrected stomp to be in the past tense. Outside the morgue a hawk coasted on thermals above highway 80, the pavement in the parking lot was hot, re-radiating sunlight for the sole purpose of blistering my feet. The she beast with hamhock arms waved me in. He was dead. Good for him. Diet iced tea in hand, I went back outside to soothe my soul with sucralose. It didn't help. Wanted something different, corn syrup was lighter on the mood if a bit heavier on the thighs. Doug never liked me and the hawk flew away. In the distance, a mufflerless car called me out, puttering loud, lurching forward at haphazard angles, and spouting incomprehensible profanities. It was Doug, dead Doug coming to gloat. He had won after all, beaten me to it. Can't I do it? End myself now, end this now, this waiting around, pretending to feel sad for those that have already escaped. The car slid into me then dissipated as vapor into the air, after the cloud settled I could see Doug standing before me naked except for a harp. "You've gotten fat," Doug said. I said nothing. "I said, 'You've gotten fat' fat ears." Even dead Doug was a dick. "C'mon, say something, or are you too busy being flaccid?" A younger me would have bleed for that remark, launched a fist to flatten his face and laughed about it. I was soft then, easily bruised. I am different now, my ego is calloused, hardened from years of failure. "There was a hawk here," I offered. "Oh? A big one? With wings?" Doug grinned and pantomimed a flap. "Flying on the thermals." "Ha! What a laugh, I'm dead and you go bird watching. Where's the respect?" "Go to hell." "Been there, done that. Better places in this universe Tom, brighter places, have all of eternity for cold lightless chasms. Places with flowers, birds bees and sun. That's where I'm goin' now." "Served your time did you?" "Yeah. A life sentence. On this poo poo heap," Doug said gesturing around him. "Compared to this Hell is rosy, though it ain't got no roses." "So what's the big guy like?" "Hmm?" I pointed up. Doug laughed. "You're too fat. He likes attractive believers, models and actors mostly." "That so?" "Yeah, rest get sent to purgatory till they buff up. Maybe get new faces." "New faces?" "'Thou shalt have impeccable bone structure,' is his 11th commandment." "So that's where I'd go? If I went through with it?" "'No fatties,' 12th commandment" "I thought he loved all his children." "He created us in his image, obesity is sacrilegious." "You saying I shouldn't do it, then? I have to keep on living?" "At least till you've buffed up. Gotten a few surgeries, pectoral implants, Botox, maybe widen your eyes." "I'm okay with how I look." "Yeah, but HE isn't. Lose weight, better yourself, become strong and attractive. Then you can compare yourself to weaker, lesser people and feel satisfied and in control. The meaning of existence is moments of fleeting vanity, thank God." Doug flew into the sky and left me to clean my thoughts. Trashed morality. Burned away inner character and stomped on the ashes of experience. Disregarded justice. Embraced vanity, hedonism and improvement of self over the needs of others. And life was easy. Tonsured fucked around with this message at 23:58 on Jul 17, 2013 |
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Jul 17, 2013 23:36
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Cingulate posted:Tonsured, I must admit I may not be the best person to critique this - it didn’t really connect with me and I mostly chose yours because it was the most recent text nobody else had already critiqued better than I could. I appreciate your eyes and thoughts on this, the point of this story was to reject it. The world of the narrator is superficial and vain and these traits are the only active impetuses in his life, so inundated is he that even his supernatural epiphanies lack depth. The discord is supposed contrast with what the reader holds dear, your inability to connect with it might be construed as a success. My motivation for this story was to comment on the superficial nature of the image of God organized religion instills in its modern day followers. Specifically, The projection of an idealized God utilized for simplistic comparison judgments as a world view is an easy but superficial way to live. I may have failed in conveying this notion clearly. Edit: Also I stand proudly by my childish humor. Tonsured fucked around with this message at 00:13 on Aug 20, 2013 |
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Aug 19, 2013 22:47
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